WRESTLING—Wrestling With Their Dreams

For indie promoters, it’s the bottom line that always gets hammered Four years ago, Barry Cohen saw his first live Wrestlemania show. He sat in the first row. He met World Wrestling Federation impresario Vince McMahon. He was hooked. Today, at 22, Cohen’s Jewish Wrestling Federation plays the West Valley Jewish Community Center, but he dreams of one day selling out Staples Center. “Everyone has a dream of doing something,” said Cohen, who both produces the shows and wrestles in them. “I’ve been a longtime fan of wrestling, and I always wondered, ‘What if?'” Welcome to the world of independent wrestling, a place where a kid can jam and slam, bleed and scream. And dream of becoming the next Stone Cold Steve Austin or even Vince McMahon. Over the past several years, at least four independent wrestling organizations have started up in the San Fernando Valley alone. They play to houses of 20 or 200 at schools and community centers, bar mitzvahs and halls. They sell T-shirts, caps and posters. Some have even snagged sponsors. “Wrestling is becoming so huge, that more guys are getting into it,” said Aaron Hasson, webmaster of socalwrestling.com, a Web site that chronicles independent wrestling. “There are too few slots in the big three, so they get involved in smaller groups.” The World Wrestling Federation empire may have grown to more than $400 million in sales with television broadcasts attracting anywhere from 3 million to 5 million viewers and talent like Austin commanding multi-million salaries. But many of these independent associations, with an average ticket price of about $10, deal in three-digit gate revenues. If they’re lucky, they’ll break even. Other times, they don’t make enough to pay the wrestlers. “A federation in this area means one guy,” said Fred Olen Ray, a film director who started up All Star Championship Wrestling in North Hollywood about a year ago. “Everyone has these fancy schmancy names, but it really means one guy working out of his bedroom.” At 46, Ray has been wrestling for years but, he said, the opportunities have always been too few and the audiences too small. “Sometimes the guys in the dressing room outnumbered the guys in the audience,” he said. “So the objective for me is to sell all the seats in the house.” Rattlesnakes get expensive All Star Championship Wrestling matches, held about every two months, usually at the American Legion Hall in Reseda, draw a robust audience of about 250 people. But with advertising, staff salaries and elaborate special effects an upcoming match on Jan. 26 will feature a crate full of diamondback rattlesnakes the shows cost about $2,000 to produce and, at $10 an adult ticket, the company was barely breaking even. Ray has now raised prices to $12 an adult ticket and he’s attracting sponsors like Coors Light. “These things cost money, but that’s what’s putting people in seats,” he said. Another promoter, Rick Drasin, runs a less elaborate operation, staging his American Wrestling Federation Shows at high schools and colleges and splitting the gate with the schools. A former bodybuilder who began wrestling in 1965 and still works as The Equalizer, 56-year-old Drasin produces four or five shows a year, drawing an average audience of 500 at $10 a ticket. “If I was to rent a building, I wouldn’t do as well. You have to have the support of something like a PE department in a high school,” said Drasin, who recently began selling wrestling merchandise on his Web site, www.taltos.net/bigboy. About a year ago Drasin opened the American Wrestling Federation School in Van Nuys, where students from 17 to 40 shell out about $250 a month to learn the tricks of the trade. At average wages of $25 to $100 a show in these independent leagues, the students are not likely to earn back their costs anytime soon. But the wrestlers say they don’t do it for the money. “Where else can you get paid to tell people they’re stupid?” asked Crayz (a stage name), who says wrestling gives free rein to his alter ego. “When you hit that curtain, you’re somebody else. Crayz, he’s a madman. He’s my escape from reality.” Wrestling fans liken it to a soap opera where viewers can cheer their favorite characters, boo them or harbor fantasies of being just like them. Cohen’s Jewish Wrestling Federation characters are drawn with a self-deprecating sense of humor. Cohen himself wrestles as Jewpac Shakuritz, a play on the late rapper, and body slams his opponent into a bucket of dreidels. He works with David the Mohel, who comes into the ring with hedge clippers to “circumcise” his opponents, and Yosef Allgoodstein, who spits Manischewitz wine and throws matzoh. “Most of our characters aren’t macho tough guys,” said Cohen. “You’re not going to see David the Mohel bench-pressing 300 pounds.” So far, Cohen’s productions, sponsored by the Cal State Northridge chapter of Hillel, have been fund-raisers, but he recently teamed up with another group, Millennium Pro Wrestling, and plans to produce a more mainstream show in March. He is also looking for sponsors and working on a Web site where he hopes to sell T-shirts, bumper stickers and programs. “Obviously, we’re going to target the Jewish community, but I would love to do it for the mass market,” Cohen said. “I think just based on the stereotype, people will show up.” In reality, say many, most of these federations will never cross over into the big leagues. “Eighty percent of promotions will never grow beyond the place where they ran their first show,” said Joe Seanoa, director of wrestling media for Ultimate Pro Wrestling. “I liken it to minor league baseball. Some teams will be around forever, but it’s very hard to transcend to make it into the major leagues.” Ultimate Pro Wrestling may be one of the exceptions. Since starting up about two years ago, holding shows for about 30 people in gyms, the production has moved into the Galaxy Theater in Santa Ana drawing audiences of 900. “Last year we turned away 200 people at the door,” Seanoa said. Ultimate Pro Wrestling, which also runs a school for wrestlers, has become a kind of farm club for the WWF, and some of its wrestlers and behind-the-scenes workers have crossed over to the WWF empire. Still, Seanoa said, “We struggle everyday to keep the company afloat.” In the last analysis, dreams won’t pay the rent. “Wrestling is a business, and business comes first. You don’t do things unless there’s some profit to be made.”